Custom and Tradition
by ThessalyMc
Summary: Amidst discussions of astrological phenomena, unexpected gifts of socks, expected pedantry, and the mooning of Devonshire sheep, Sherlock and John uphold some wedding traditions and break others. From the 'Traditions' series, following the events in 'A Traditional Scotsman' and 'Family Traditions'. Kiltlock.
1. Chapter 1

With tremendous thanks to Team Beta, who have been stunningly patient with me as I figured out how to write these two idiots in an intimate setting. And a shout out to Jamlockk who first pointed me in the direction of kiltlock and prompted me to write one.

The boys still aren't mine, but if they were, John would be in a kilt. Often.

Note that the 'mature' rating is for chapter 1, in which amorous boys are amorous. Posting schedule for the rest of the chapters should be Tuesday/Friday/Sunday ...

* * *

John felt the play of muscles in Sherlock's back as the other man shifted in his arms, freeing his hand from the bedding and holding it up to catch the shimmer of morning light on the ring on his finger. He smiled and inched forward to press kisses in the hollow between Sherlock's shoulder blades. Sherlock hummed and leaned back into John, who tightened his arms briefly before snaking his left arm free and propping himself up to admire the ring, and the disheveled form it adorned, as Sherlock settled onto his back.

"It looks good on you," John said with a smile, his right thumb tracing lightly over the prominence of Sherlock's hip.

"It's stunning," Sherlock said, turning his hand again. "Titanium was a good choice. Light and durable."

"The blue reminded me of your eyes," John said, "when they're in a blue mood."

"A 'blue mood'?"

"Your eyes change colour. Sometimes it's related to the lighting, but it often seems to correlate to your mood."

"My mood affects the colour of my eyes?" Sherlock scoffed, shooting John a disbelieving look.

"I've actually got a spreadsheet on it," John said with a laugh, dipping his head to press a kiss to Sherlock's shoulder. "When you're bored they're a stormy grey. When you're involved in an experiment or busy in your mind palace they go a bit green. And when you've had an epiphany about a case, or when you're aroused, they're a brilliant blue."

"You observe the shifting colors of my eyes and are able to correlate their changes to my moods, but you needed a 'sign' before proposing? I despair, John," Sherlock said, wearing an expression of mock distress.

"Git," John replied, turning his light caress into a poke and causing Sherlock to yelp. A brief scuffle ended with John sitting astride Sherlock's hips, pinning his hands over his head. He grinned down at the man below him. As Sherlock's scowl softened into a smile John bent for a kiss, releasing his hold on Sherlock's wrists and running his hands down Sherlock's arms and up into his hair.

Sherlock's arms came up to wrap around John, his hands moving lazily over John's shoulders. He broke the kiss, his gaze caught on the ring again.

"What about the dark grey stripe, then? Not wood, or metal. Some kind of stone? What is it?"

"Meteorite."

John blinked and found himself on his back, Sherlock poised above him, hands wrapped around his shoulders and pressing him into the mattress.

"John Watson," he said with a low growl, "you wouldn't be using my wedding ring to mock me, would you?"

"Am I …? What? No. No, Sherlock," John replied, moving to rest his hands on Sherlock's waist and rubbing light circles with his thumbs. "Never."

"Then why meteorite?"

"It might sound a bit silly, but, well, it's ... me."

"The meteorite is you?" Sherlock repeated, releasing his grip on John's shoulders and resting his weight on an elbow, allowing his body to sag down onto John's.

"You- You are my world, Sherlock. For so long, though, I danced around acknowledging it, sticking to orbiting you from a safe distance. But safe isn't me. And it definitely isn't you. It isn't us, and I wanted _us_."

"And this makes you a bit of space rock how, exactly?" Sherlock asked, his tone teasing though the expression on his face showed genuine curiosity.

"This sounded so much better in my head," John groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes.

"You're doing fine, John."

John moved to scrub his hand over his face, then looked at Sherlock. The other man was looking at him expectantly. John sighed, but his expression shifted into a smile.

"Right. So, there I was, a chunk of rock, spinning through space around you. Always at a distance, until I realized that it was worth the risk of burning up in the atmosphere to fall. You were worth the risk. And so I fell. It was - Love was like gravity, pulling me home," John broke off with a slightly embarrassed huff. "Told you it was silly."

"Not silly, John. Sentimental."

"Yeah, well. If the ring fits ..."

"Ah. Speaking of rings, will you wear one, John?"

"I'd like to, yeah."

"Good. A ring to show the world to know you're mine," Sherlock said decisively, then mused. "Not matching, I think. Something similar. Complementary. But selected just for you."

"Whatever it is, it will be perfect."

"Perfection is rather a high bar, John."

"I have every confidence in you."

"Now you're mocking me," Sherlock said, nuzzling John's neck.

"Might be, yeah," John replied with a smile. He gasped when Sherlock's teeth nipped at his collarbone, and smacked a hand on Sherlock's arse in response to the other man's chuckle.

"Do you want a big wedding, Sherlock? Something lavish, where I can show you off? Something simple with just family and friends?"

"Don't care, so long as you're in a kilt," Sherlock replied, moving his lips along the scar on John's shoulder. "And there's dancing."

"Mmmm. You know, love, I might suggest that you reconsider April."

"Oh? And why is that? You don't fear a bit of a breeze, do you, John?"

"If you don't mind me flashing our guests ..." John said with a smirk. "But if we're outdoors to catch the breeze, in April, I'm afraid there won't be much to see. April is cold, Sherlock. Freezing my bits off on our wedding day might not be in your best interest." John punctuated his words by rolling his hips up, eliciting a rumble from deep in Sherlock's chest. "Besides," he added, "I'd rather not wait another nine months to call you mine."

"I'm already yours," Sherlock replied, moving to press kisses down John's chest.

"Mmmm, but I want the world to know it, and sooner rather than later," John said.

"September has reasonable temperatures, and a fair chance of blustery days. And it should give Mrs Hudson enough time to plan."

"Not your mum?" John asked, breath catching on the last word as Sherlock's tongue swept across his navel.

"God, no," Sherlock said, looking up with a horrified expression. "Besides," Sherlock said, lowering his head again to continue trailing his mouth downwards, "you know Mrs Hudson's been planning it for years already."

John had to agree, which was good, as he found himself unable to formulate further arguments, coherent or otherwise.


	2. Chapter 2

"Good news, love," John said as he entered the flat. He shrugged off his coat and hung it on the hook while toeing off his shoes. "Mike's finished his celebrant training ..."

John trailed off when he turned back around and caught sight of Sherlock's thunderous scowl. The detective sat in his armchair glaring at a small box held in his hand.

"What's that, then?" he asked.

"From Mycroft."

"All right," John said, crossing the room and sitting opposite Sherlock. "What's he sent you now? Box is a bit small to be case files, unless it's a thumb drive? He wouldn't send you an actual thumb, would he?"

"The note said it was 'something blue'," Sherlock said, thrusting the box at John, who grabbed at it before it could fall.

Inside the box was a pair of brilliant blue cashmere socks. The shade was a perfect match for the band of dyed boxwood in Sherlock's ring.

"He's taking his duties as your best man seriously," John said with a grin.

"He's just hoping I'll take that case involving the Indian Ambassador," Sherlock sniped.

"I don't think so," John disagreed, then, seeing Sherlock's incredulous expression he corrected himself. "All right, yes, I'm sure he wants you to take the case. But I don't think that's what this is about. He was so pleased that you asked ..."

"I still can't believe he accepted," Sherlock groused, but John knew that Sherlock had been just as gratified by his brother's affirmative response as Mycroft had been at being asked. "What does he mean? _'Something blue'_?"

"The wedding tradition? The bride is supposed to wear 'something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.' This can't be news to you, Sherlock, not after the effort you went to in order for Mary to have 'something borrowed' to complete the tradition. You stole a pair of your mother's earrings for her."

"Did I? Oh. I …. may have deleted details surrounding that event that didn't directly involve you," Sherlock admitted, taking the box back and looking at the socks thoughtfully.

Before John could open his mouth to reply, Sherlock cut him off with a soft 'oh!'

"This explains the handkerchief."

"What handkerchief?"

"Mrs Hudson brought it up this morning," Sherlock said, standing and moving through the kitchen to the bedroom, then reappearing a few minutes later carrying a small scrap of cloth. "She was going on about wedding dresses. I explained that your kilt is not a skirt, and that neither of us would be wearing dresses at the wedding. She insisted that she understood, but still said that I was to carry this handkerchief to fulfill tradition."

He handed the small slip of fabric to John. It was a small square of satin, ivoried with age, edged in similarly aged lace. Something between a handkerchief and a pocket square, and obviously hand made.

"She wasn't talking about you in a wedding dress, you git. She was talking about _her_ wedding dress," John said, handing it back. "She used it to make that for you. It's the sort of thing a mother might do for her daughter, or for her son."

"Sentiment?" Sherlock asked, handling it more gently than he had before.

"Oh, definitely," John confirmed.

"I hadn't realized," Sherlock said.

"That's because you're an idiot."

"Perhaps," Sherlock said, putting the handkerchief with the box containing the blue socks, then his face creased in a puzzled frown. "Why am I the bride?"

"Who says you are?"

"You said it's tradition for the bride to have these things."

"You've got 'old' and 'blue. I'll get the other two, and tradition will be satisfied," John said, then smirked. "Actually, I've already got 'borrowed' covered, thanks to a suggestion Greg made today …" he saw Sherlock's eyes narrow as the other man tried to deduce what Greg might have offered to fulfill the custom. He pushed on, hoping to divert Sherlock's attention, "So, that just leaves 'new', then."

Sherlock's brow furrowed further, but his expression had shifted from determined to considering.

"John," Sherlock began, "are there rules about who can give these items?"

"None that I know of. Usually I think they come from the bride's attendants, or her parents. But you provided an item for Mary, and in any case, we're not brides. We're adapting tradition to fit. Why?"

"Stay there," Sherlock replied, darting out of the sitting room and up the stairs.

John heard him clattering back down the stairs a moment later. He crossed the room and moved to stand behind his armchair, a box about the same size as the one with the socks clutched tightly in his hand.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Do you ever think about retirement?" Sherlock asked.

"Occasionally," John replied, not bothered by the apparent non-sequitur.

"I don't. Or, I didn't. I never bothered, as I never expected to live long enough to retire. I always imagined that one or another of my self-destructive habits would kill me long before that, but the thought never caused me any distress. I didn't care. Before. I do, now."

"Sherlock ..."

"No, I know, John. We don't live safe lives, and we like it that way. I can't make promises or plans, but I think about it now. Growing old. Retiring. With you," Sherlock said, then stepped around his chair and slowly offered the box. "I had it made for you. It was going to be a wedding gift, but it could be 'something new' …"

John reached for it, not taking his eyes off of Sherlock. He could feel the box shaking slightly in Sherlock's fingers as he took it. He fumbled with the lid, only looking down when he had it open.

Sitting in a nest of white cotton padding was a stunning bit of Celtic knotwork in the shape of a bee. Heavy gauge brass wire made up the body, with lighter weight silver wire used for the wings and black oxidized wire for the legs.

"A bee?" John asked as he reached in to pull the little bee free from the mass of fluff. It was heavier than it looked, and had a long pin that ran down the underside.

"I've always found bees fascinating. I thought I might become an apiarist one day, after we retire," Sherlock replied.

John turned the bee over in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship. He looked up to meet Sherlock's still vaguely anxious, hopeful, gaze.

"It's beautiful, Sherlock. I love it. I love what it means," John said, setting the pin back into the box and standing to reach for Sherlock. "I love you," he said, leaning up for a kiss.

"You'll wear it for the wedding, then?" Sherlock asked when John sank back down, breaking their kiss. "I know your RAMC pin means a lot to you. You'd not have bought it otherwise, and your service is something you're right to be proud of."

"I am proud of it, and it does mean a lot to me," John agreed. "But it's my past, Sherlock, and this is my future. Our future. Of course I'll wear it for the wedding!"


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock didn't look up when he heard the door open behind him. He didn't need to. It was obvious who would be sneaking into his room the night before his wedding.

He looped the green satin tie over the hanger to drape down against the Holmes tartan waistcoat he'd wear the next day, and turned to see John leaning back against the closed door, a fond smile on his face.

"Impressive," he said with a grin.

"What is?" John asked, pushing off the door and crossing the room to wrap his arms around Sherlock.

"You, sneaking through the house in the middle of the night, past a Scotland Yard detective, and the British government - and Mummy - to get to my room," Sherlock replied.

"That does sound impressive," John agreed, sliding his hands under the hem of the inside-out tee Sherlock was wearing. "But, no. I told Greg that this particular wedding tradition was stupid, and that I'd see him in the morning, and left him chatting with James and Mike, to come looking for you. Found your mother and Mycroft downstairs talking to Henry about the hire cars to get out to Brentor tomorrow. I waved to them as I came up. No sneaking involved."

"I would have sneaked."

"I know, love. And you'd have been caught."

"No," Sherlock said, pulling away slightly to shoot John a haughty look. "I most certainly would not."

"There is no way you'd have made it to the other side of Henry's ridiculously massive house unnoticed, Sherlock. Not with the whole wedding party, and James, and Molly, and the assorted plus-ones staying here."

"I would have made it," Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. "Easily."

"Well, now you don't have to," John replied, moving to take Sherlock's hand and tugging him to the bed.

Sherlock let himself be led, and pulled down next to John. They lay on their sides, facing each other. Sherlock reached out and ran his fingers along John's temple, tracing the whorl of his ear, and down his jaw.

"How are you real?" Sherlock asked.

"I could ask you the same thing," John said, reaching to capture Sherlock's hand and pressing a kiss to his fingertips. "Our lives read more like fiction than reality, but here we are. And tomorrow, in front of more Holmes cousins than I ever imagined, I am going to marry you."

"There are only seven Holmes cousins," Sherlock protested.

"Which is more than I expected, and doesn't even take the French contingent into account."

"Aurélie and Benoit are my cousins on my mother's side. They aren't Holmes," Sherlock corrected. "And two hardly makes a 'contingent'."

"Oh, my God, I'm marrying a pedant."

"Yes, you are."

"Yes, I am," John agreed, placing their joined hands over his heart, "tomorrow afternoon, in front of _hordes_ of Holmes', masses of Londoners, dozens of police officers, a couple of peers of the bloody realm …"

"... several retired RAMC officers, half the medical practitioners of London …"

"... and all the sheep in Devon ," John said with a laugh. "Christ, Sherlock. I can't believe how many people came all the way up to Dartmoor to see us get married. Both Cross Keys and the Elephant's Nest are booked solid with our wedding guests."

"They're only here to try to catch a glimpse of your bum," Sherlock said with a grin. "I've given Ara instructions to keep her camera pointed in your direction in the event there's a breeze."

"We'll be on the top of the bloody Tor, Sherlock! A 'breeze' is all but guaranteed!"

"I know," Sherlock agreed with a smirk.

"You're a menace, Sherlock," John said, grinning widely. "I'll talk to Ara in the morning. If the only photos from our wedding are of my arse …"

"Then between that and the picture she took of Mycroft's expression this evening at the rehearsal dinner, she will have more than earned her fee."

"Oh, God," John said, overcome by a fit of giggles. "I can't believe you did that."

"He said he liked them," Sherlock protested with a chuckle. "That he 'appreciated their classic design'."

"That was before you told him that the 'RK 1830' engraved on the back of those lovely antique cufflinks you gave him indicated that they'd once been owned by a surgeon linked with a series of murders and body snatching …"

"Which in no way affects the traditional aesthetic of the image," Sherlock said primly while John kept laughing.

"Oh, God," John said again, tugging his hand free to wipe laugh tears from his eyes, clearly trying to catch his breath. "He looked like he'd just eaten a lemon."

"Yes. It was rather perfect, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked with a smug smile.

He pushed on John's shoulder and rolled him onto his back, then shifted closer to tuck himself along John's side.

"So, our wedding photos will be my bare arse and your brother's sour face. Excellent," John said, his arm coming up to wrap around Sherlock's shoulders.

"Those will feature among Ara's candid shots," Sherlock agreed. "But there will doubtless be a tiresome number of posed photos as well. Mummy will insist. And we'll need one suitable for printing with Janine's interview."

"I'm looking forward to seeing the proofs of that article," John said. "To make sure she's playing nice. The last article she wrote about you was … well. It was not kind."

"It was all part of our arrangement, John. Mutual exploitation in pursuit of our aligned goals."

"I know, love. And I suppose she thought she was being flattering. All the same, I'm grateful to Mycroft for providing a contract that will keep her article friendly."

"It'll be fine, John."

"It's our wedding, Sherlock. It'll be better than 'fine'. Even if the only photo we get is of me mooning the Devon sheep, and Janine writes an article that quotes me as saying that you make me wear the bloody hat, at the end of the day, you'll be my husband, and I'll be yours."

"Is it tomorrow yet?" Sherlock asked.

"Go to sleep, love."

"Contrary to the lies parents tell their children on Christmas Eve, going to sleep does not make morning, or good St Nick, come any sooner. Not that he exists - I've never really understood why parents would construct such -"

"Good night, Sherlock," John said pointedly, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's curls.

"Good night, John."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Harry's words as he escorted her from the dance floor, but he couldn't help smiling. It was to be expected that she'd be protective of John's happiness, but she couldn't possibly be more invested in it than Sherlock was. He had, after all, just promised to spend the rest of his life doing everything in his power to make his newly wedded husband happy.

He heard Harry snort softly, clearly having seen his reaction, but his attention was already focused elsewhere, gaze sweeping across the room to locate John.

He found John leading Mrs Hudson to a chair, and leaning down to press a kiss to her flushed cheek. Sherlock admired the bit of leg exposed by John's movements, his smirk softening into a smile at the flash of a gold-and-silver bee in the folds of the kilt as John turned.

Sherlock watched as John scanned the room, nodding as he met the gazes of friends and family around the room. When John finally caught sight of Sherlock, his smile widened and he started across the room. Sherlock moved to meet him, the two of them coming together in the middle of the dance floor.

Sherlock slid his hands around John's waist, and felt John do the same. He leaned in to kiss John, and found he was smiling too hard to do it properly.

The wolf whistles from Greg, Janine, and Bill Murray didn't help.

"Dance with me?" he asked.

"You lead," John replied, sliding his left hand up to Sherlock's shoulder, and taking Sherlock's left hand with his right. "I've damaged enough feet already this evening."

Sherlock smiled and pulled John against him as the music started.

"Looked like Harry had a few things to say during your dance."

"I'm sure you can deduce what they were," Sherlock replied.

"'You break his heart, I will end you'?" John asked with a grin.

"Hmmm. No death threats. Your sister is far more inventive than that," Sherlock answered.

"Oh?"

"There was some mention of my scrotum having an unpleasant encounter with your very dull _sgian dubh_."

Sherlock could feel John's shoulders shake with laughter.

"She should know that I would never break your heart," Sherlock said softly. "Not again."

"Nor I, yours," John replied, his laughter stilling. He pulled away just enough to meet Sherlock's gaze, his expression sincere. "Not again."

Sherlock tightened his hold on John's waist as he guided them around the dance floor, weaving them skillfully between other dancing couples. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother dancing with Lestrade, and Molly with Henry Knight, and Wiggins escorting Clara and her daughter to the dance floor.

"She knew the whole history of the _sgian dubh_ , you know," Sherlock said as he found Harry seated at a table with her girlfriend, in conversation with Lady Smallwood, Uncle Rudy, and Angelo. "All the way back to the story of how your great-great-grandfather originally passed it on, and to whom, and why. Spent the whole of our dance – save for the last comment about taking care of your heart or facing dire consequences – filling me in on almost all the important bits of its story."

"Only 'almost all'?" John asked.

"She didn't tell me why she had it sent to you now, and not … before."

"Ah," John said.

Sherlock manoeuvered them across the floor, smirking at Mycroft's pleading look as his brother danced with a slightly tipsy and extraordinarily loquacious Mrs Turner.

"She didn't like Mary," John said after a moment.

"She doesn't like me, either," Sherlock countered.

"True, you are not her favorite person," John replied with a smile. "But it's different."

"Different, how?"

"She didn't think Mary was good for me. And, well, she wasn't wrong."

"And she thinks I'm good for you?"

"She knows you are."

"Then why the graphic description of the use to which she would put your family heirloom should I fail to see to your continued happiness?"

"Formality?" John replied, smiling. "Tradition? Mycroft did the same thing to me, though, his threats didn't involve dull knives."

"He didn't ..." Sherlock began, looking around angrily.

"Stop, Sherlock," John said, lifting his hand from Sherlock's shoulder to cup his cheek and turn his head back to face John. "He knows I would never purposely hurt you, and that I will protect you from those who would. That I want to give you the world. That I'll spend my days trying to make you as happy as you make me."

"If he knows those things, why bother with the threats?"

"To remind me that I'm not the only one who loves you, and who is watching out for you," John said.

"You are all I need," Sherlock replied, reaching up to take John's hand where it still rested on his cheek and bringing it around to plant a kiss on his knuckles. The glitter of the ring on John's fourth finger caused them both to catch their breaths.

"Go on, then. Tell me why you picked this one."

"Do you like it?"

"You know I do, Sherlock, stop fishing. It's gorgeous," John said. "What is it?"

"Black ash burl and moldavite," Sherlock replied, bringing their joined hands to rest over his heart. "The wood reminded me of you. The stone is me."

"Why did the wood remind you of me?"

"The colour is warm and rich, and it has layers of depth and complexity that may not be obvious at first glance, but that an interested party could spend a lifetime studying," Sherlock said.

"And the moldavite? How is it you?"

"It's a form of tektite," Sherlock explained.

"A what, now?"

"A tektite. A mineral that is formed upon impact by an extraterrestrial body."

"Like a meteorite?"

"Exactly."

"Really? This came from a meteorite?"

"From the impact of a meteorite," Sherlock corrected.

"And how is it you?"

"It's me, because of you. Because you stopped orbiting, and fell. You … made an impact," Sherlock said, flushing slightly. Emotions were subjective, and difficult to explain. He much preferred logic.

He must have done all right, though, given the radiant look on John's face.

"And you once said I was a romantic," John said with a laugh.

"You are."

"Well, then, we're a matched set," John said, turning his hand to interlace their fingers. "I saw an inscription, but didn't get a chance to read it. What does it say?"

"' _a dh'fhaodadh a bhith cunnartach_ '," Sherlock replied easily. "Could be dangerous."

"You know, I wouldn't have it any other way."

The song ended, but Sherlock made no move to release John, who glanced around, then leaned in conspiratorially.

"How much longer d'you suppose before we can slip away?" he asked.

"At least another hour," Sherlock responded.

"So long?"

"Dancing, John! And we haven't even cut the cake yet."

"Sod the cake. I want to take my husband home," John said, pressing a kiss under Sherlock's jaw.

"Eager to try out the 'borrowed' item in your sporran?" Sherlock asked, his laugh a bit shaky as John continued to kiss him. "Handcuffs, John, really? You know that I can pick that lock, blindfolded."

"Is that so?" John asked, stepping back and shooting Sherlock an interested look, before adopting a faux-innocent expression. "Do you know … _I can't_."

"Cake," Sherlock blurted, loudly enough to be heard over the opening notes of a new song. He cleared his throat as the guests on the dance floor turned to look at him, the orchestra quieting. "I believe," he announced, ignoring John's smirk, "that it's time for cake. Now."

* * *

This is the end of the story, and I think it's the end of the series. I will be posting a 'chapter' made up entirely of author's notes tomorrow. A few headcanons and details that didn't make it into the stories in the series, but formed the background that shaped it.

Thanks again to Team Beta - 7PercentSolution, GhyllWyne, SailOnSilverGirl, HubbleGleeFlower, JBaillier, and NikoFord. You all rock! And thanks to Jamlockk for providing the initial prompt.


End file.
